Post Holes and Pane Glass Windows
by Lady Chal
Summary: Post holes and pane glass windows, drummers, dances and barroom brawls... what does one have to do with another? Ezra is about to find out when he does a favor for Inez and gets more than he bargained for. Ez/Inez, Chris/Mary and Buck making mischief.
1. Chapter 1

**Post Holes and Pane Glass Windows**

**By Lady Chal**

AN: Takes place a few months after my other story "The Brotherhood" (which alas is still not finished) and my shorter story "Mañana," also archived here.

Summary: Post holes and pane glass windows, drummers, dances and barroom brawls... what does one have to do with another? --Ezra is about to find out when he does a favor for Inez and ends up getting more than he bargained for. Ez/Inez, Chris/Mary and Buck making mischief...

**Chapter One**

Ezra Standish stared intently at the cards in his hand, but his mind was not really on the game. He knew for a fact that the kid had nothing and the piano player held little better than a pair of Queens. He himself had drawn three Jacks on the kid's deal and knew that his odds could only get better. Discarding the deuce, he drew one card and was rewarded with another ten. Secure in his full house, he raised the pot another dollar and cast his eyes over the odd assortment of clientele that currently populated the saloon.

It was the usual riff-raff –himself included—but there was something different today. Something was just a bit off, tugging at his senses, but he had as yet to ascertain the source. The piano player attempted a small bluff, seeing and raising him another fifty. Ezra did not need to feign boredom as he pitched in a half dollar and then upped the ante. He _was_ bored. The card players who had drifted through these past few weeks did not even measure up to second rate. Nevertheless, he was grateful for the steady income with which they provided him.

The kid folded quickly, as he expected, and the piano player called. Ezra laid down his full house to the man's Queens and picked up his smoldering cigar. With an absent glance he quickly calculated the winnings before him. There was about twelve dollars there, --better than a week's wages for either man who sat at the table with him. It was enough. Any further fortune on his part would only incur their resentment and although he wouldn't have minded the change in pace, he did not really want the trouble. Besides, there would be hell to pay with Inez if he spilled blood on the floor. She was still giving them grief about all the windows they'd broken in the shoot out with Ma Nichols and her boys.

The soft buzz of warning jangled at the edges of his consciousness once more, but he shrugged it off as the piano player, an itinerant entertainer named Lansky, rose from his chair.

"I reckon I know when I'm licked." Lansky picked up his battered bowler hat and set it smartly on his head. "I keep playin' with you and I'll be stuck in this town another week tryin' to earn my coach fare."

Ezra smiled. "You have discovered my nefarious intentions, Mr. Lansky. I had hoped to keep the dulcet strains of Beethoven in town a few days longer. I do not recall the last time we were blessed with such culture."  
"Either too long, or not long enough," the piano player said tersely. "That big feller with the moustache threatened to shoot me if I didn't get back to playin' the bawdy songs."

"Mr. Wilmington's tastes in music are rather limited," Ezra lamented.

Lansky shot him an amused look. "Mind you, Standish, it don't bother me none to play the fancy stuff for you. I appreciate a man with culture, but next time let's do the requests after hours, all right?"

"As you wish, Mr. Lansky," Ezra chuckled. Gathering the small stack of bills, he tucked them into his pocket.

The young cowpuncher scowled. "Just 'cause he's out ain't no cause to leave. How about giving me another chance to win back my money?"  
Thanks to the years of emotional repression which he fondly termed his childhood, Ezra managed to hold back a sigh. They never knew when to quit. The chances of the young man winning back his money were about as good as Buck Wilmington sitting down to the piano and pounding out the Moonlight Sonata. He did not, however, say so. Instead, he flashed the kid what he hoped was an apologetic smile.

"I assure you sir, I would enjoy nothing more. Unfortunately, other duties call me away at this juncture in time. However, if you are available this evening, I would be delighted to provide you with ample opportunity to do just that."

With any luck the boy would let it go. Otherwise, he was going to have to resort to card manipulation in order to let the kid win back a small pot. God knew the young cowhand didn't have the skills to do it on his own. With a polite nod to both men, the Southerner rose graciously and ascended to his room.

From his table near the corner, Chris Larabee watched him go. _Smooth,_ he thought, as his eyes tracked Standish's movement down the long hall towards the back stairs. The gambler had perceived the potential for confrontation and neatly side-stepped it, making his excuses in such a way as to leave the kid's pride intact while giving him the time and opportunity to back away. Chris watched as the irritated young cowpuncher signaled Inez for another drink, and wondered if the kid would ever realize the magnanimous gesture the gambler had just performed. The cynic in him doubted it.

Whether the kid knew it or not, he had just been spared a painful and potentially deadly lesson. Most men would have taken him up on the challenge, and played until he had nothing left to draw upon but his gun. It was an old story. More than one proud, hot-headed youngster not knowing when to quit had lost his money and ultimately his life to some gun-slick card sharp. Larabee had seen it himself too many times. --Apparently, so had Ezra.

Finishing his beer, Chris rose and stepped outside onto the boardwalk. Letting his eyes wander down the dusty street, he quickly spotted Standish out in front of the Jail, engaged in what appeared to be serious conversation with Buck and JD. Chris knew better. More likely, the gambler was attempting to entice them in a friendly wager while waiting for the young cowhand to lick his wounded pride and clear out of the saloon so that Ezra might resume his enterprise. Moving across the alley towards Watson's Hardware, Larabee claimed a chair on the boardwalk and surveyed the street scene with a small smile of satisfaction. There were still days when he questioned the wisdom of taking Standish into the group, but today was not one of them.

"You're looking awfully pleased with yourself," a feminine voice observed.

Chris looked up into the china blue gaze of Mary Travis and let his smile widen.

"A man wants something done right, he'd best do it himself," he said mildly. "I reckon it's no different with appreciation." He eyed her with obvious speculation. "What brings you to this end of town."

"Research," she said quickly. "Things have been slow lately. I'm writing an article on the bad element."

He flashed a wicked grin. "You came to the right place," he said.

She swept him with an assessing look, taking in his dusty black garb, the tied down guns and the unshaven jaw. "I would think so."

She cocked her head towards the doorway of the hardware store. "Actually, I've been visiting the local merchants. I've been appointed to the planning committee for the Sweethearts Dance. The businessmen's association is looking for sponsors to pay for the band."

"Sweethearts Dance?" Larabee queried. This was news to him. There hadn't been so much as an ice cream social since he'd hit town. "When's that?"

"Valentines Day, of course," Mary said practically.

Chris frowned. "Startin' early, aren't you? We ain't even had Thanksgiving yet, let alone Christmas."

Mary sighed. "Have you ever tried to play anything by committee?"

Chris shrugged. "In my line of work, the only thing I plan on is who I'm gonna shoot first. There generally isn't much call for discussion on the matter."

Footsteps sounded on the boardwalk to his right, and he glanced towards the saloon. The young cowhand had left and was making his way back up the street towards the hotel.

"Maybe I should take you to some of the committee meetings," Mary sighed. "It might hurry things along. As it is, it took two weeks just to decide to have a dance. It will be months before they figure out who's going to be in charge of the food and the decorations and the music…" She shook her head and rolled her eyes. "There are days when I honestly wonder how on earth I get myself into these things."

Chris nodded sympathetically. "I ask myself that question all the time," his green eyes baited her. "usually it has something to do with a firebrand newspaper woman I know."

Mary scowled at him, but he could tell she was enjoying the sparring match. "Just for that, you are going to owe me a waltz."

"A waltz?"

"You _do_ waltz, don't you Mr. Larabee?"

He shifted his gaze away from her to the street. No. He did not. –Not since Sarah, anyways. A brilliant flash of plum moved past his line of vision and he noted Ezra coming back across the street from the jail. The southerner, having observed the young card player's departure, was heading back towards the saloon with Buck in tow. The two men drew a table and two chairs from the building's murky interior and placed them strategically on the boardwalk, where they might enjoy the warm sunshine of the late October afternoon.

Inez came out then and took their drink orders. Buck, ever the hopeless romancer, offered her a brilliant smile and whatever line he'd most recently been polishing for her benefit. They were far enough away that Chris could not make out her reply, but he judged from Ezra's snort of laughter and Wilmington's befuddled expression that the bar maid had just dealt Buck's ego a mortal blow. He chuckled and shook his head.

"Poor old Buck, he doesn't stand a chance."

"Neither does Ezra," Mary Travis murmured.

The remark caused Chris to swivel his head about in surprise. "What?" he said, not quite certain he had heard her correctly. From what he had been able to see, Standish showed about as much interest in women as he did in making large charitable donations from his own pocket.

Mary was now studying the trio with undisguised interest, her reporter's eye taking in every small detail of their interaction, and her womanly intuition reading between the lines to interpret what Chris had missed.

"You are absolutely right," Mary said. "Buck doesn't stand a chance with Inez… and Ezra doesn't stand a chance against her."

Chris laughed and shook his head in disbelief. "Are you saying she's set her cap for Standish?" He glanced quickly about them and then took care to lower his voice, aware that they were sharing private speculations in what was still a very public setting. "I think even Inez has more sense than that."

"Watch her," Mary said quietly, nodding as Inez came out with the drinks. "Buck speaks to her, flatters her, tries to get her attention, but she never quite meets his eyes. She looks at Ezra. She _smiles_ at Ezra."

And, Chris noted silently, it was Ezra whose shoulder she patted as she turned and walked away. He felt a small twinge of unease as he watched the woman disappear back into the saloon. He did not really know Inez well, had barely exchanged more than a few words with her in the months since she had come to town, but she struck him as honest and hardworking and decent. –Too good, a few might say, for the likes of Ezra Standish. Part of him hoped that Mary was wrong. Any woman who thought herself in love with the gambler was likely to find heartbreak instead of hearts and flowers.

He shook his head. "I don't reckon much will come of it. Ezra ain't exactly the settling down type."

_Neither were you,_ Mary thought with a touch of grim amusement, _…until the right woman came along._ She knew better than to speak her mind aloud, however. Chris was in one of his rare and pleasant moods and she was of no mind to upend it. IT was not often that he spared the time to tease and chat with her, and she savored it, for it offered a tantalizing glimpse of the man he must have been before the deaths of his wife and son.

On the other hand, she didn't particularly care for the smug way in which he dismissed her observations. Larabee was entirely too cocky as it was. Perhaps she sould leave him with something to stew over. She fixed him with what she hoped was an innocent smile.

"Are you willing to place a friendly wager on that?"

He returned her smile with a lazy grin. "Why Mrs. Travis, you'd best be careful or people will be thinking you've been corrupted." Still, he could not hide the speculative interest that lurked in his dark green eyes. After the briefest moment of hesitation, he asked "Just what did you have in mind?"

"Well, she said carefully, fixing her gaze upon the two men who were easily enjoying their beer and a card game on the boardwalk, oblivious to this intense observation, "seeing as how you never did answer my question, I suppose I could be gracious and let you off the hook."

_You could,_ Chris thought grimly, _but you won't._ And she didn't.

"Mr. Larabee, I'll wager you that when the Valentine's Dance finally rolls around, it will be Mr. Standish dancing the last waltz with Inez rather than Mr. Wilmington."

"And if you're wrong?" Chris asked.

"Then you can bask in the knowledge that you were right and I am merely the victim of foolish womanly notions."

"And if you're right?"

Mary looked squarely at him then, and there was a feral edge to her smile. He rather thought he liked it …until she replied. "Why then, Mr. Larabee, you will owe _me_ a waltz."

"High stakes," he murmured, maintaining his calm façade even as he felt the trap spring shut. "You sure you're holding the winning hand?"

The mischievous glint in her blue eyes told him that she was far more certain than he was. Bending forward slightly, she offered him a conspiratorial whisper, along with the briefest whiff of lavender soap. "I'm sure you know a great deal about men, Mr. Larabee, which is why you are so sure of how Ezra might respond, but let me share with you one little secret about women."

"What's that?" he said quietly, hardly able to breathe in the short distance that lay between her face and his. She was fixing him with that damnable, knowing vixen's smile.

"We always get our man."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

The four o' clock stage arrived at precisely four-forty, divulging its shipment of weary travelers and taking Myron Lansky, the piano player and pedagogical wonder with it on its way to Eagle Bend. Ezra watched it go, feeling a mild sense of regret as it disappeared around the corner. God only knew how long it would be before another piano player could be obtained. Weeks probably, and even then it would undoubtedly be some clumsy fingered buffoon who would tromp on the keys with all the finesse of a drunken hippopotamus while cranking out ill-tuned renditions of the latest bawdy songs for Buck. He did not hold out much hope of finding another player well versed in the classics. Musicians of Lansky's talent were few and far between in these parts.

However, the regret he felt in the wake of the piano player's departure was more than compensated for by the sight of the newcomers the stage had deposited in front of the hotel. They were just emerging now, looking somewhat fresher than they had a scant half-hour before, and Ezra had little doubt that each had partaken of the pitcher and wash basin their rented rooms had offered. All of them were men, ranging in ages anywhere between twenty-five and fifty. From the cut of their ill-fitting, cheaply made suits, he deduced the lot of them to be drummers. One or two he actually recognized. There was a portly, sandy-haired patent medicine salesman named McGillicuddy that he'd met somewhere before –either in Denver or Abilene—he couldn't remember which. He also spied Tuttle, the bespectacled and sallow faced window-glass dealer.

Tuttle was a regular visitor, stopping through every few weeks to check up with his favorite customers among the storefront proprietors. He'd told Ezra once that since their arrival, Four Corners had become the most profitable stop in his sales territory. Ezra didn't doubt it. The little stand off they'd had with the Nichols gang alone had garnered Tuttle nearly two hundred dollars in sales commissions and made him the top earning salesman in the territory. Ezra smiled to himself as he was presented with a mental image of the pale, balding little man kneeling before his hotel bed at night praying, _"And please, Dear Lord, if you could be so kind as to send another forty or fifty desperados to visit Four Corners before I get there next week…"_ –It was almost enough to make him consider the window glass business himself.

Sparing a glance at his pocket watch, Ezra tucked it neatly away and departed the café, where he had taken a light repast before the long and hopefully profitable evening ahead. He wished he could have said that he had enjoyed the meal, but that would have been shading the truth a bit too far for even his capabilities. Normally, he would not have strayed from the fine table that Inez set, but this particular culinary ordeal had been a matter of business rather than pleasure. He had taken the opportunity to dine with a local banker in hopes of securing another loan to re-purchase the saloon. Regretfully, his efforts had met with about as much success as the meal that had been set before them.

However, the stage had brought new blood to town, and with luck, new players to his table. That alone was enough to improve his mood. Whistling a cheerful melody between his teeth, he crossed the street to the saloon and stepped through the swinging doors to the welcoming cool and dim interior. There were only a handful of customers seated at a table across the room, and he nodded politely to them as he took a seat at his usual table.

"Hola," Inez said softly, appearing at his shoulder. She paused to wipe down the edge of the table and then set a cool mug of beer before him. "How was dinner?"

Ezra scowled. "Not as promising as I had hoped. Mr. Lawton proved uncompromising, and I daresay our dear Mrs. Decker could profit from a lesson or two in your kitchen. The poor departed beef they slid before me must have thought itself sentenced to eternal damnation for as long as they left it on the fire."

Inez chuckled softly and offered Ezra a sympathetic glance. "Would you like me to bring you something?"

He shook his head. "No, but thank you, Inez. I believe I shall live." He tapped his beer mug. "Just keep these coming, and whatever you do, don't let McGillicuddy the patent medicine man talk me into one of his stomach elixirs."

"Que?" She frowned, not following him.

"You'll see him shortly, no doubt," Ezra explained, drawing a fresh deck of cards from his pocket and fanning them expertly as he began to shuffle them, warming up his hands. "He's a rather portly gentleman, about forty-five, in a rather loudly checked suit. I made the mistake of sampling one of his tonics in Abilene. Believe me; the cure was far worse than the ailment ever could have been."

Inez sighed. "I take it the stage has finally arrived?"

"And departed," Ezra said, jogging the deck and practicing an undercut. "But not before leaving us a fresh supply of drummers, hucksters, hockers and salesmen to be unlashed upon the denizens of our fair town."

"Anyone we know?"

He cocked his head. "Aside from McGillicuddy? –Just Tuttle, the window man. I daresay he'll be disappointed this trip. Nobody's shot out so much as a quarter-pane in a month, and during the last brawl we had, everyone took great pains to aim the excess combatants out the door." He shot her an amused glance. "Your little speech apparently had quite an effect."

She snorted and tilted her head towards the rows of brand new panes that sparkled in the front windows of the saloon. "After what it cost to replace those windows last time, I would hope that some of you were listening."

Ezra smiled brightly and dealt from the bottom of the deck, producing his signature card, the ace of spades. "Fear not, my dear. The gaggle of parched traveling salesmen that I have spied heading our way is sure to purchase enough libations to more than cover your losses in glazing."

This news did not elicit the joyous response which he would normally have expected, and he studied her surreptitiously from the corner of his eye as the nagging uneases that had plagued him earlier in the day suddenly returned with full force. There was a tightness to her eyes that was out of character for her usually sunny disposition. Her voice and her movements were too tense, too quiet for the normally bright and brash young woman he had come to know. She was still standing at his side, lost in the silence of her thoughts. Her fingers worried at the dishtowel in her hands as she stared out the window in search of the newcomers he had predicted. Ezra felt the small knot of anger clench in the pit of his stomach as he finally realized exactly what it was that had been bothering him. He had sensed all day that something was off, and now he knew what it was. It was her.

Disgusted with himself for not recognizing the signs sooner, he set his cards aside and looked at her carefully. She looked like a skittish desert hare, ready to flee at the first sign of trouble. He knew that look. He hated it. It was the same, hunted expression she had worn for days after the incident with the soldiers. The only thing worse in his mind was the shattered, terrified look he had seen in her eyes that night when he had burst into the room to find her struggling with the two drunken men, intent on molesting her. He had tried to console himself with the knowledge that he had stopped them before they had harmed her, but he knew it wasn't entirely true. They had not hurt her physically, but the incident had left its mark upon her. For a time, she had become a pale imitation of the fiery, quick-witted woman he had come to appreciate. By day she had darted through the taproom, pale and nervous and far too quiet. By night the muffled sound of her breathless sobs had carried down the hallway to his room where he lay, equally wakeful, torturing himself with the sound of her crying.

Judging from the expression on her face –or rather the lack of it—he feared they were due for another such night. He spoke softly, taking care not to startle her as he reached out to gently tug at her apron and bring her from her reverie.

"Is everything all right, Inez?"

She turned to face him, her movements too quick, her smile too bright. "Of course Señor."

He arched one brow, his green eyes skeptical, and she hastily added, "Everything is fine."

He did not buy it. "Has someone been troubling you?" His voice was so low as not to be overheard.

The nervous fingers that had been worrying the dishcloth stilled quite abruptly and the false smile disappeared as she quickly shuttered her emotions. There was no sense in pretending with each other. They both knew it. Her brown eyes locked with his and he could see her struggling to maintain her composure as she finally meted out a small grain of truth to him. "It does not matter now. They have gone."

He drew in a sharp, angry breath. He was about to argue, to tell her that it did matter. He wanted to remind her that she need not deal with it alone, but he did not have the opportunity. The swinging doors burst open at that particular moment, spilling forth the odd assortment of traveling salesmen which he had forecast. He could not help but be impressed as he watched Inez. She masked her emotions flawlessly, meeting the newcomers with a bright and cheerful greeting as they seated themselves at his table and entered into a game.

He dealt the first hand almost mechanically, his mind not really on the cards as he watched her step behind the bar to fill the drinks. Someone had approached her. Not a local, they knew better. Word had gotten round about the events of that fateful night. There wasn't a man in fifty miles who hadn't heard about the men who had attacked her –and what Ezra had done to them as a result. No one who had heard the story would be so foolish. 'They' had gone, she had said, and he thought of the travelers who had stopped in town. One of the cowhands from the trail herd drifting through? Had it been Lansky, the piano player, recently departed on the stage? The thought turned his stomach. If it was, he'd throttle the little worm, virtuoso or not.

McGillicuddy called and Ezra laid down his cards, somewhat surprised to discover that he did not, in fact, hold the winning hand. He spared a pleasant nod towards the winner, a clean cut fellow from Kansas City, as the man claimed the pot which included a few of Ezra's own hard won dollars. The southerner mentally chastised himself as he dealt another hand and put away all thoughts of Inez and her troubles. It was time to attend to the business at hand.

When he next bothered to check his watch it was nearly a quarter to ten and he was up a good twenty-five dollars from where he had initially started, a few hours before. Most of this was due to Tuttle, who had just arrived from a profitable tour through Watsonville, where a wind storm had struck a few days before. Some of it –to his supreme annoyance—was due to the young cowhand whom he had managed to brush off earlier in the afternoon. The young man had apparently not taken the hint that his fortunes were not to be found in the pasteboards and had joined them for several hands. Fortunately, at least two of those hands had been won by one of the drummers from Kansas City who was peddling encyclopedias, so that when the young man had finally exited the game, he had not been able to blame all of his misfortunes upon Ezra.

"Well," McGillicuddy announced, rising from the table, "that cleans me, --unless you would be willing to let me open with a case of Stomach elixir."

Ezra offered him a wide, gold-toothed smile. "Not in your life, my good man. When I imbibed the vile substance I purchased from you the last time we met, it caused me to revisit every meal I had taken for the month prior."

The drummer looked surprised. "You actually _drank_ it?" He shook his head sympathetically. "Poor devil! The stuff ain't meant to be taken internally!"

The southerner flashed the medicine man a look of supreme annoyance. "When one receives a bottle billed as a digestive elixir and coming with no instructions per se, what else would one suppose to do with it?"

"Ya rub it on yer belly," McGillicuddy replied. "It works its way through your skin, warms the stomach and stimulates blood flow to your digestive system. Good God! I wouldn't dream of drinkin' the stuff!"

"Indeed," Ezra drawled.

From somewhere behind him, he could hear the choked laughter and managed to keep his face perfectly neutral. That would be Nathan and Buck. He did not require a fortune teller to predict that he was going to be the victim of endless patent medicine jibes before the week was out. No doubt there would be a case of McGillicuddy's Magnificent Stomach Elixir waiting outside his door before morning.

The medicine man departed with Tuttle quickly following. The two men chuckled between themselves as they departed the saloon for their rooms at the Hotel. Ezra remained unruffled as he continued to deal to the remaining players. He could afford their amusement at his own expense. After all, he had their money.

Inez appeared suddenly at his elbow, setting down a glass of whiskey rather than his usual beer. "From Senor Nathan and Senor Buck," she explained, a small frown furrowing her brow. "They wanted me to tell you it was an elixir for…" she screwed up her face, uncertain of the word "piles?" Piles of what, she did not know, and judging by the complete lack of expression on the gambler's face, she was fairly certain she did not want to ask, either.

This elicited a muffled chuckle from his fellow card players. Ezra did not turn a hair. "Thank you Inez," he said pleasantly, studying the cards in his hand and discarding two. "Give my regards to Mr. Jackson and Mr. Wilmington, and please tell them I will indeed take my medicine. However, I fully expect them to stop by before they leave and make a personal inspection of the case."

The soft chuckles of the card players rose into a roar of laughter. Ezra turned in his chair, raising the glass in salute to his grinning colleagues before tossing it down. Setting the glass down on the table, he looked expectantly towards the men seated around him. "Now gentlemen, where were we?"

After another hand, the encyclopedia salesman dropped out and then the fellow peddling kitchen gadgets. It was down to just himself and the last man, a sewing machine salesman from St. Louis. Ezra flipped the cards idly through his fingers and offered the man –who went by the name of Johnston—a lazy smile. "It hardly seems worth the effort, does it not?"

The drummer nodded. "You could say that. How about a drink instead?"

Ezra grinned and signaled to Inez. "I'll drink to that."

Sitting back in his chair, he contemplated the man with casual interest. Johnston had fared the best of all his fellow travelers, having managed to win three or four hands over the course of the evening. He was, perhaps, even a few dollars ahead of where he had started. The man was a conservative player, Ezra noted, and a smart one. No doubt he had spent a little time on the gambling boats of his own hometown. The salesman had quickly sized up Ezra's skill and apparently decided that challenging it was not worth the expense to his own purse. Instead, he had stayed in the game on more of a social level, often folding when there seemed little hope and only staying in and pushing when the odds were strongly in his favor. Johnston had played his cards carefully, and as a result, his coins made up the smallest percentage of the sum now in Ezra's pocket.  
Inez arrived once more at his side, placing fresh drinks before each of them.

"Thank you, Inez." Ezra offered her an absent smile.

Johnston looked up at her, his eyes sharpening with undisguised interest. "Inez, is it?" he asked casually, "A pretty name for a pretty lady."

Beside him, Ezra could feel her slender frame stiffen as she took one small step closer to his side.

"Gracias, Señor." Her smile was polite, but it did not reach her eyes or warm her voice. She dropped a hand to Ezra's shoulder then, seeking his attention, and he looked up into her face. The expression she wore was too calm for the nervousness that danced in her dark eyes. "I need to get more bottles from the cellar. Will you watch things for me while I'm gone?"

"Certainly, my dear," he said amiably. "Heaven forbid the well should run dry."

She nodded and moved off towards the back room, departing with more haste than she normally possessed at this late hour of the evening. Ezra allowed his gaze to follow her for a few steps. Johnston's compliment had obviously spooked her. Understandable, he supposed, considering the unfortunate encounter she had suffered earlier in the day.

Still, he thought, flicking his gaze back to the salesman, he doubted Johnston was much of a threat. The man was clean-cut. His light brown hair was neatly trimmed, though it showed a touch of gray at the temples that suggested he was rapidly approaching middle age, if not already well-ensconced in it. His suit was well-cut and of good cloth, thought not particularly flashy or expensive, and he had a pleasant manner of speaking that suggested the makings of gentility… at least until he opened his mouth.

"How much?" Johnston asked quietly.

Ezra looked up from his beer, surprised. "I beg your pardon?"

"How much for the woman?"

Ezra stared at him, his expression blank, shock overruling the outrage that he could already feel beginning to crawl up from the pit of his stomach.

"I've heard she's good," the salesman commented. "If she's as good as they say, I'd want her for the whole night."

Ezra straightened carefully in his chair, the green of his eyes going several degrees colder as he spoke. "I am afraid there has been a misunderstanding."

Johnston smiled. "Come now, we are both men of the world. There is no need to be coy. It is merely a business transaction, after all."

From the corner of his eye, Ezra caught a flash of movement and spotted Inez moving back to the bar in a swirl of brightly colored skirts. He swore inwardly. This particular conversation was the last thing that needed to reach her ears. He turned and fixed the salesman with a calculating glance.

"Perhaps," he said at last, fishing in the inside pocket of his frock coat for a cigar, "but it is not the kind of business that I prefer to discuss in so public a setting." He tilted his head towards the bank of new windows that Inez had so diligently polished. Through them one could just make out the pale shapes of the storefronts: Decker's Café, The Clarion newspaper and other more respectable businesses of town. "There are standards of society to be maintained, you understand."

"Of course," Johnston said reasonably.

Shoving back his chair, Ezra rose from the table. "Would you care to take some air with me?" he suggested, moving towards the door. The salesman nodded and rose to follow him, trailing a few steps behind.

Out on the boardwalk, Ezra took a moment to light his cigar, casting a careful look up and down the street as he did so. It was deserted, except for the small knots of horses tied up here and there in front of Digger Dave's Saloon up the street. –Just the way he wanted it. He preferred that this particular discussion have no audience …or witnesses. He drew deeply on the cigar, taking a moment to consider the contingencies. Buck and Nathan were still inside and JD had already turned in for the night over at the Jail. Josiah was likely off to the church, reading his bible, and Larabee –as far as he knew—had headed back to that shanty and plot he called a horse ranch. Vin was likely about somewhere though, riding the night patrol. With any luck, he would have decided to shun the confines of town tonight, riding the distant perimeter of town rather than the main streets. Still, one could not afford to be too careful. With a jerk of his head, Ezra indicated that Johnston should follow him. Stepping off the boardwalk, he led the man into the darkened shadows of the alley between the Saloon and Watson's Hardware.

He stood there for a long moment, sucking the smoke deep into his throat and waiting for the calming attributes of the tobacco to take effect. Johnston was not the first man to arrive in town with such assumptions about Inez. He was, however, the first one to engage in the folly of approaching Ezra with them. The others had approached Inez directly, with Ezra only learning of the incidents after the fact. By that time of course, the villains were long gone, leaving the normally fiery Mexican woman timid and quiet and skittish for days. Here then, lay an opportunity. Johnston seemed to be in an amiable and talkative mood. Perhaps, with a bit of careful inquiry the source of the man's misguided notions might be revealed.

Pulling the cigar from his teeth, Ezra studied the ash that was carefully building on the tip of his smoke and fixed the salesman with a pleasant but quizzical look. "I must confess," he said casually, "I am somewhat surprised by your request. Most men seeking the particular type of entertainment you are interested in would prefer to inquire at the establishment across the street." He indicated Miss Maggie's, the brothel which operated in the guise of a female boarding house much to the consternation of near-by business proprietor, Mary Travis.

Johnston nodded agreeably. "They will do in a pinch, but I find such establishments too mundane myself." He flashed Ezra a meaningful look. "I prefer smaller operations that might be willing to cater to… more exotic tastes."

Ezra carefully tapped the cigar, letting the excess ash fall to the hard-packed earth of the alley and made a small, noncommittal noise to conceal his distaste. He was, he reminded himself, a man of the world. He was both well-read and well-traveled. He had lived or spent time in nearly every major city from Charleston to New York and Santa Fe to San Francisco. He had even, as a young man, made an extended an largely unprofitable European tour with Maude. He had been to Havana, Buenos Aires and Panama. There was little that he hadn't seen, for Maude had drilled him in his powers of observation and in his journeys he never failed to take in every detail of those places, from their glittering jewels of architecture to their dark and seamy underbellies. He knew precisely what Johnston meant by "exotic tastes," and it had little to do with softly accented languages, strange music or brightly colored clothes. He had walked the streets of San Francisco, seen the ghastly, haunted faces of the Chinese crib girls peering out from behind the bars where they lived in filth and degradation. He had been to Paris and felt the slight tug of small hands at his coat tails as thin, grimy faced children offered themselves to him with parents or pimps looking on. Maude might not have been much of a mother, but at least she had never stooped to _that_ level.

He took another puff on the cigar. He was not shocked, he reminded himself, but he was disturbed. He had traveled the world and seen its cities. He knew what depths humanity was capable of descending to. He would expect to encounter such things in San Francisco, or New York, or Paris. However, he did not expect to meet them here on the dusty back streets of Four Corners. –Not to say that the town was innocent by any means. It had seen all of the usual sins and vices: murder, theft, corruption and carnal pleasures happened here as readily as anywhere else. Maggie's joy house stood as proof of that. Even so, there was a sort of decency about the place; it was an untainted innocence that clung to the town and its citizens. Ezra suspected that even the sultry Maggie Devane would likely have cast the individual before him from her house in indignation and outrage.

"Might I ask how you came by the information that brought you here?" He noted the narrowing of the salesman's eyes, a hint of suspicion perhaps, and fixed the man with an easy smile. "You will understand, of course, that I cannot be too careful. Such transactions are made with the utmost discretion. Therefore, I prefer to know exactly who I am dealing with."

The salesman looked surprised. "You want a reference?"

Ezra shrugged. "So to speak. The good citizens of town are already endeavouring to drive Maggie out on a rail. I cannot afford to be too careful."

Johnston nodded. "All right," he said at last, "it was a fellow I met a ways back along the line – a hotel bartender over in Ridge City. I don't recall his name."

Bartender. Ezra repressed the small flicker of anger. It never paid to make assumptions. On the other hand, it never hurt to play hunches either.

"McQueen?" he suggested, "Jake McQueen?"

Johnston shrugged. "That might have been it. He was a hefty fellow, blonde hair, wore a beard."

Ezra nodded. It was McQueen all right. He should have followed his instincts, ignored Inez's wishes, ridden out and shot the bastard. It would have been easier in the long run. _Dead men tell no lies,_ he thought grimly.

"So how much?" Johnston asked again.

"Nothing."

The drummer's gaze narrowed. "What? What is this?"

Ezra turned squarely on the man, his voice growing colder as he spoke. "What this is, is a mistake, Mr. Johnston. I'm afraid that you have been sadly misinformed by the individual whom you mentioned."

The other man frowned. "If it's a question of money, I'm willing to pay –in advance."

"It is not," Ezra assured him.

"Then what is it?" The sewing machine salesman demanded. "Is it me? You don't think I'm good enough to use your whore?"  
The darkness of the alley shadowed the gambler's features, but the faint sliver of moonlight which slipped between the buildings illuminated the pale, icy green of his eyes and the gold of his incisor as he snarled back.

"In my opinion, you are not good enough to sweep the dung from the streets, but that is neither here nor there. As I said before, there has been a mistake. There is nothing to pay for. There is no service of which you speak. The lady in question serves drinks and food, nothing more."

The salesman laughed harshly. "That's not what that bartender in Ridge City said. He said she was a hell cat, the best in town." He eyed Ezra shrewdly. "Maybe there hasn't been a mistake. Maybe that bartender was right after all. Maybe she is that good, and you just want to keep the merchandise to yourself for a while."

Ezra did not deign to dignify the remark with a response. It was taking every last shred of effort to maintain his cool façade. Privately, he wanted nothing more than to beat the man to a bloody pulp and throw him on the next wagon out of town. The drummer, emboldened by a few drinks and more than a little angry, mistook the Southerner's silence for weakness and decided to press the issue.

"Maybe I should go back in there and deal with the little tart directly," his voice was taunting and his thin lips were pulled back in a sneer.

"That is certainly an option," Ezra said mildly.

"Maybe I'll take it then," the man said shoving past him.

The gambler caught the salesman in a lightning move and slammed him against the exterior wall of the hardware store. "On the other hand," Ezra growled, "you could also go back to your room –alone—and depart this charming oasis first thing in the morning."

"Where's the fun in that?" the drummer demanded, his dark eyes flashing with anger.

"I'll grant you, it's not a particularly entertaining option, but it would save your friends the effort and expense of your burial," Ezra ground out.

The other man lunged then, shoving hard at Ezra's shoulders in an attempt to break free, but the Southerner was prepared for it and moved with him. Whirling, he used the momentum to fling his opponent against the opposite wall. Their bodies collided against the weathered siding of the saloon with an audible thud. They grappled furiously for a moment and Ezra caught the flash of moonlight on metal as the man came up with a knife.

He deftly blocked the thrust, batting it back with a sweep of his forearm and smashing Johnston's hand against the wall. The blade clattered uselessly to the hard-packed dirt and Ezra dealt the man a jab to the kidneys, followed by a blow to the jaw that sent the drummer reeling.

The salesman collapsed against the side of the building and Ezra took him firml by the lapels, hauling him to his feet. Slamming him against the siding once more for good measure, he pinned the man there and glared directly into the salesman's eyes. They were both breathing hard with the effort, and their gazes, when they locked, were molten with fury. Through supreme will, Ezra somehow managed to keep his voice low and calm as he spoke.

"If you touch her, I will kill you. If you speak to her, I will cut out your tongue and use your own knife to do it. In fact, if you come anywhere within sight of that woman, I will beat you until you are blind. In short, sir, I highly recommend that when the next stage comes through town, you be on it. Are we understood?"

"There a problem, Ezra?" The new voice, quiet and deadly and sharp with suspicion, cut down the length of the dark alley.

The gambler swore silently to himself, but did not release his hold on the salesman. He did not speak, but allowed his icy glare to reiterate the question.

_Are we understood?_

Weakly, the salesman nodded. Ezra released him with a ready smile, sweeping the fallen knife away with his foot as he did so.

"It's nothing, Mr. Larabee," he said pleasantly, turning to face Chris and brushing the dust from his own sleeves. "--Merely a small misunderstanding."

Larabee's gaze flicked from Ezra to Johnston, who was nervously backing away without bothering to stoop for his knife or even the hat he had lost in the struggle. Ezra watched the man's progress as he slithered off into the darkness and disappeared. Nathan and Buck, he noted absently, were standing on the steps of the boardwalk, frowning down upon the scene. Turning back towards Chris, he spotted Vin, lounging on horseback at the other and of the alley and holding the reins to Larabee's stallion.

"Quite a scuffle," Chris observed as he drew closer to the gambler. "Want to tell me what that was all about?"

It was more an order than a question, but Ezra was in no mood to play the good soldier.

"No," he said tersely, and reached down to pocket the knife which the salesman had dropped.

Larabee fixed him with a cold-eyed gaze. "We've got enough problems keeping the peace around here without you scratchin' like an alley cat out in the back streets." The gunman lowered his voice to a dangerous tone. "Folks already are nervous enough about us as it is. You'd better not be slammin' a man around loud enough to hear clear across town without a damned good reason."

"I had one."

"What was it?"

The gambler merely smiled and shook his head. "That, Mr. Larabee is none of your business."

The silence that fell over the alley was palpable. It was as if everyone and everything –including the air itself—had suddenly forgotten how to breathe. For a moment, Ezra wondered if Larabee might strike him. He saw the quick flash of rage that rose to the older man's eyes, saw the fierce pounding of the vein at his temple as he struggled to control it. Then, as suddenly as it came, it passed.

"What happens in this town _is_ my business," Chris reminded him. "If there's trouble, I want to know about it, or know the reason why."

"There is no trouble," Ezra said evenly, "merely a misunderstanding which has been resolved. The unfortunate individual had some rather misguided notions about how we conduct business in this town. Now that the matter has been clarified for him, I've no doubt he'll be on his way –as will I." He he cast his gaze from Chris and Vin to Buck and Nathan and offered them each a small nod. "Good night, Gentlemen."

Turning on his heel, the Southerner stalked off down the alley, shouldered his way past Buck and Nathan, climbed the stairs to the boardwalk and returned to the saloon.

"What happened in there?" Chris asked quietly.

The healer shrugged. "Got me," he said, stepping down off the boardwalk to join the older man. "Ezra was just his usual self, far as I could see. –Played poker most of the night with that lot of travelin' salesmen. The game broke up about twenty minutes ago."

Buck nodded. "He an that other fella were just sittin' back an' chattin as nice as you please. Then they got up an came outside. Next thing we know, they're tossin' each other around out here hard enough to rattle the dishes on the tables."

From behind him, Chris could hear the quite footfalls of the horses as Vin rode up the alley. "Ain't like Ez to rough up the customers like that. Whatever happened, the fella must have irked him some."

Chris sighed and turned back to Nathan. "Keep an eye on him; we don't need a repeat of tonight's performance."

The healer nodded. "Sorta planned on it anyways. Things have been a little tense in there tonight."

Larabee frowned. "What do you mean?"

Nathan shrugged. "I can't really say. It's more a feelin' than anything. –Like a storm's brewin'. Inez has been jittery the whole night. Even Ezra looked a little edgy 'til he got a game up." He gazed thoughtfully at the sliver of sky above them and the flood of silver light that slipped between the cracks of the buildings and into the alley. "You know, it's a full moon tonight."

Larabee sighed. "Around here? I doubt it makes much difference."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

A small hush washed over the interior of the saloon as Ezra stepped through the batwing doors. He was suddenly overpowered by the pressing urge to fill it.

"Whiskey, Inez." His voice was tired, and he did not really want the drink but the terse order had the desired effect as Inez nodded and soft buzz of conversation resumed once more.

By the time he had removed his hat and dropped back into his usual chair, the volume of the voices had almost returned to something approaching normal. By the time Inez set the glass before him, he could no longer feel the weight of the curious gazes upon him, and by the time Larabee and Nathan stepped into the room, taking over a small table by the corner window, everyone seemed to have forgotten him completely. –This was fortunate, as he was neither in the mood for companionship or scrutiny. He glanced wryly at the drink before him. He wasn't even in the mood for whiskey. Still, he took a small amount of the unwanted drink if only to maintain appearances.

Ignoring the scattered deck of cards, he picked up one of the poker chips and turned it back and forth between his fingers as he pondered the information he had extracted from the salesman. Jake McQueen was behind the unwanted advances that Inez had recently been subjected to. He knew now that he had made an error in judgment by letting McQueen go. He really should have killed the son of a bitch.

He flipped the chip between his thumb and forefinger, catching it neatly with his other hand and walking it back and forth between his knuckles. Still, he supposed it was never too late. At the time, he had restrained himself out of respect for Inez's wishes on the matter. He had sensed that she wanted to avoid the controversy such actions would incur. She merely wanted the whole thing to go away, to be forgotten. Eventually the gossip and speculation had died down and the incident had been largely forgotten –or would have been, had McQueen let it. Ezra palmed the chip in a practiced move and then snapped it easily from the tips of his fingers in an effort less motion, causing it to reappear as if from thin air. The worn token of red pasteboard landed softly between the whiskey and the cards and Ezra gazed thoughtfully at it. There was an accounting due Jake McQueen, of that he was certain.

So engrossed was he in his dark thoughts, that he was not aware of the passage of time until Inez's soft announcement suddenly cut across the room. The customers amicable rose and filed out until only Larabee and Jackson remained. The two men lingered a moment, long enough to make certain the room had cleared of both customers and potential trouble. Then, with a quiet nod to Ezra and a soft goodnight to Inez, they disappeared into the darkness. She barred the door behind them and stood there for a long moment, a brightly colored shawl drawn tightly about her shoulders as she watched them depart through the heavy beveled glass of the great double doors. She had already snuffed the lamps that lined the front of the room, and by the moonlight that spilled through the windows, her features seemed drawn and tired. Ezra barely recognized this pale shade of a woman. Inez had always vaguely struck him as a spark of fire and brilliance floating about the edges of his life. To see that light fading made the cool anger that knifed his gut twist just a little harder.

He tossed down his nearly forgotten drink in one quick motion and rose from the table. Reaching for the cards, he gathered them together into some semblance of a deck and tucked them into the pocket of his frock coat with less than his usual attention. He picked up the empty glass, carried it to the back of the bar and felt the intensity of her gaze upon him as he turned to make his way back to the staircase and to his room. Ezra had to force himself to meet her eyes. They were as dark and impenetrable as a cup of Buck's over-boiled coffee, and he could read nothing in them. Not that he needed to, he mused. He could well imagine what thoughts must be running through her mind.

"He won't bother you again."

The gambler's words were quietly spoken, and Inez had the uneasy feeling that somehow he was talking about more than just the traveling salesman.

"Gracias," she said at last. Her voice was barely a whisper, and she doubted he heard her, for he was already gone, moving quickly through the tangle of tables and chairs and ascending the staircase to his room. There was a faint creak of a floorboard as he crossed the threshold, the soft squeak of hinges needing oil and then the door closed behind him with a barely audible thud, leaving her alone.

Inez looked for a long moment at the disarray of the vacant room. The chairs were scattered about, the floor wanted sweeping, the glasses needed washing and by her most optimistic calculations, there was still a good hour's work ahead of her. On any other night, she would not have rested until all was clean and in order for the next day's business. It always gave her a sense of pride and satisfaction to put out the lamps on the taproom with the floors washed, the chairs turned tidily upon the tables and the rows of clean glasses sparkling behind the bar. But her mind was not upon her work tonight, and she knew her efforts would be half-hearted at best.

_Have you never heard of mañana, Inez?_ Ezra's voice, tired and lazy, drawled at her from the depths of her memory. She shivered beneath the brightly colored cotton of her shawl, reliving for an instant that awful night. It had been the last time she had felt happy …the last time she had felt safe.

If only she had listened to him! If only she had barred the doors, put out the lamps, followed him up the stairs and left it all until morning! Then it might have been avoided, the soldiers would not have come, and she would not have had to spend each night that followed, fighting this crawling fear that slithered from the dark corners of the room to curl around her.

She glanced anxiously about the empty taproom. What had once seemed so familiar to her, so cozy and safe, now seemed big and dark and all too empty. She knew that she was alone. She had barred the back door herself, had checked the back rooms and the cellar while Nathan and Larabee had lingered and had barred the front doors behind them when they left. Still, the knowledge did little to ease her jangling nerves. Glancing warily about the disarray of the empty room, she did something she had only done once before. She left it as it was. Snatching up the small taper that burnt behind the bar, she headed for the staircase and made her way up it, her footsteps light and quick as she took the stairs two at a time. She had heard of mañana. As far as she was concerned, it could not come soon enough.

Sleep had seemed like a good idea at the time, but her escape into oblivion proved only to be a trap of nightmares waiting to be sprung. Somewhere in the hazy darkness of her mind, the lurid dreams and memories caught up to her. She twisted and fought the tangled sheets, feeling only the hard hands that held her fast, the fingers that groped and tore at her. She could feel the hot, whiskey soaked breath against her ear as her captor whispered his disgusting intentions. She cried out in fear, hoping someone would hear her, and felt the overwhelming despair as she realized they wouldn't. She was alone. –Alone with these men, and alone in the world. There was no one to turn to. No one would be coming to her rescue.

Some dim voice in the back of her memory argued that this was not entirely true. Someone had heard, someone had come, but the fear was firmly in control now and as she glanced wildly about for the shadowy rescuer that the voice promised, she could plainly see that there was no one at all.

Inez woke suddenly, exhaling with a strangled sob. A fine sheen of sweat covered her skin, and the gentle evening breeze that wafted through the window chilled her to the bone. She tugged at the twisted sheets, pulling them more closely about her. The darkness seemed to close in upon her, still and oppressive, and whispering to her about just how alone she really was.

She forced herself to quiet her ragged breathing for a moment as she listened for the tell-tale squeak of a bed frame or the creak of a floor-board that signaled motion and wakefulness from the room down the hall. There was nothing. Only silence. She had not woken Señor Standish. She supposed she should have been grateful. Though he never spoke of it, she knew her bad dreams had disturbed his slumber on more than one occasion these past few months.

Burrowing down into the worn cotton sheets, she clutched the thin feather pillow to her chest and curled herself tightly about it. It was on nights such as this that she missed Miguel the most. From the time they had been small children, he had been her protector and her confidante, even though she was two years his elder. As a girl, she had been roused from many a bad dream by her little brother's small, pudgy hands and his warm breath upon her cheek as he'd whispered for her to wake up and stop crying. He had always made her tell him her dreams –good and bad—and ever the strategist, had lain awake with her in the dark hours of the night, thinking up ways to chase away the monsters and other terrors her unconscious mind had conjured until they both fell asleep.

Inez clutched the pillow more tightly to her body and felt the warm trickle of a tear slip down her nose. She would have given almost anything to feel her brother's arms around her now, to hear Miguel's soft voice whispering to her in the darkness as he spun out elaborate ideas for battling her monsters, but there was nothing she could do to make it so. Miguel was dead, killed by Don Paulo Madera, the last all-too-real monster that had stalked her waking and sleeping moments. She felt the soft sob shake through her as she thought of it. It had been her fault, she knew. Paulo had wanted her, and she had refused him. When he had tried to take her at the fiesta in the middle of the town square, she had fought him, and Miguel had come to her defense. Paulo had killed him for it, and she had grabbed the first weapon she could lay hands on –a broken bit of bottle—and gone after Madera like a wild woman. She had meant to kill him, but the cut had only been deep enough to scar, not kill. She only dimly remembered the events that followed. There had been no time to think –only react. She vaguely remembered Raphael pulling her back from Madera, his ebony eyes flicking from her brother's body to the moaning, bleeding mess that was the patron.

"Go," he had said, his voice little more than a whisper. "His horse is tied at the end of the street. There is a pistol and a little money in the saddle bags. Take it."

"Miguel," she had sobbed, reaching out for her brother's lifeless form. Raphael had yanked her back.

"There is nothing you can do for him," he told her harshly. "Madera will kill you now. Would you make your brother's death meaningless?" The gunman shook her roughly. "It was his gift to you, Inez. Take it, and _go._"

She had gone.

But on nights like these, when the nightmares pursued her, she could not help but think of her brother and what he had given up for her. Yes, she had her life, but what was it worth if she must live it alone, away from her family and all those who loved her? The weight of the dark, lonely room pressed more heavily upon her now, and she let the sobs come, burying her face even more deeply into the pillow. She must not waken Señor Standish. She had troubled him enough, already.

The faint sound of the crying softened somewhat, but the shadowy figure that stood at the window was not fooled into thinking it had lessened. She was trying to be quiet about it, and not disturb him. She need not have bothered, he thought sourly. He had seen it coming. On nights like these he did not sleep anyway. Taking a belt of the burning whiskey –he'd suddenly found his taste for it again—he pressed his aching temple against the cool glass of the window pane. In the past few months, it had become something of a routine.

Someone would approach her. Some nameless, faceless traveler –he rarely knew who—some ruffian who had heard tell of her charms and been assured of her services by McQueen. She would rebuff them and then she would withdraw into herself, leaving everyone wondering what was wrong –everyone except him. He knew full well what the trouble was. He'd heard it in her dreams. By day she would flash that too bright smile that did not quite meet with the fear in her eyes. By night she would cry out for them to stop, for Paulo to stop, for someone to save her, for Miguel to save her –whoever the hell Miguel was—for him to save her. No one ever did. Then she would wake. Then she would weep.

By day, he would scan the Tavern's customers, looking for strangers or men who paid her undue interest, seeking to protect her and knowing somehow that he had already failed. By night, he stood at his bedroom window and looked out upon the darkened street below, sipping from his flask and torturing himself with the sound of the muffled sobs that carried softly from the room down the hall. He hated himself on nights like these –hated himself for not being there sooner, hated himself for not riding after Jake McQueen, the bastard who had set those men upon her in the first place. Instead, he stood there at his window in the small hours of the night and listened to her cry herself back to sleep. He did not leave his room. He did not go to her door and knock gently upon it. He did not offer her a handkerchief to wipe away her tears, or take her into his arms and offer her the simple comfort of a human embrace. He simply stood there at his window; his forehead pressed tightly to the cool glass and listened to her cry.

He hated himself for that, most of all.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

**Chapter Four**

Larabee looked from the letter in his hand to the six men that lounged on the small freight dock that extended across the back of the saloon. In the earlier days before the building had been a saloon, it had been used to unload stock from wagons. Inez still received a few shipments here in the form of barrels of whiskey and cases of beer, but she had softened its utilitarian aspects somewhat, scattering about a few pots of herbs and other plants that she grew to supplement her kitchen. In her tenure, it had become a shady, peaceful spot and in the long days of Ezra's convalescence after his and Nathan's run-in with Leon McAllister and his men, she and Josiah had brought out a bench and a few broken chairs that the Southerner might recuperate in a more soothing environment than the dark and stifling heat of his room. It had not been long before each of the seven had sought him there, and in the months since, had become a favorite meeting place. It remained so even now, months after both Ezra and Nathan were fully healed. This of course, was no surprise to Larabee. It was a secluded location, away from prying eyes and ears that might frequent the taproom, yet closer to the food and beer than JD's office at the Jail.

Chris brandished the letter and tossed it down on the table. "This just came in from Judge Travis. He needs two men to escort a prisoner from Eagle Bend to trial. Who wants to go?"

There was no mad rush of volunteers. Buck stared wistfully through the walls of the building in the general direction of Maggie's. Josiah closed his eyes and meditated upon the Bible verse he had just read. Nathan studiously surveyed the blade he was honing against a well-worn whetstone. Standish flipped cards into the hat at his feet. JD hooked his thumbs into his gun belt and surveyed the others to see what they would do that he might follow suit. Vin shifted lazily against the wall he was leaning upon and at last broke the silence.

"Where's the trial?"

"Ridge City," Larabee replied, knowing that it wouldn't help his case any. Although it bore the excitement and promise of being a rail head, Ridge City was a relatively quiet town, well on its way to being civilized. It already featured a school, two churches, and upon last report from Mary Travis, a veritable army of women campaigning for temperance and morality on the streets of their fair town. He couldn't blame them for not wanting to go.

There was the expected silence as the men contemplated the lack of entertainment opportunities. It lasted the full length of a minute, and Chris was on the verge of appointing the task to Josiah and perhaps Vin or Nathan –someone who could be trusted to make a good accounting of themselves in the Judge's presence—when a voice unexpectedly broke the silence.

"Very well."

Larabee looked down in surprise at the gambler. "What?"

"I said, I will go," Standish said, reaching down for his hat. He gathered the cards with nimble fingers and quickly ordered them back into a neat stack, seemingly oblivious to the six pair of eyes that bore down upon him.

Buck was incredulous. "JD, have you been taking up ventriloquism? I could have swore I just heard ol' Ez here _volunteer_ for something."

Nathan turned a sharp eye upon the Southerner. "What's goin' on, Ezra? You got some get-rich-quick scheme in Ridge City you ain't tellin' us about?"

"If I were in the possession of such an endeavor, I certainly would not discuss it in the present company," Ezra said smoothly, pocketing his cards. "However, I assure you gentlemen, my reasons for accepting the assignment are merely a matter of coincidence and opportunity."

"What opportunity?" Buck wanted to know.

The gambler shrugged. "It just so happens I have a small business matter to attend to there."

This sparked Chris's attention. "What sort of business?" he demanded. He didn't need Standish trying to run some sort of scam beneath the Judge's nose.

Ezra calmly extracted a cigar from the inside breast pocket of his frock coat and lit it. He remained unperturbed by the interrogation. Indeed, given the way Larabee had been eyeing him as of late, he quite expected it.

"Nothing of consequence," he assured them. "A favor to Inez –an errand for mother really. She mentioned in her last letter that she'd heard tell of a new distillery opening near there. She suggested that Inez check into it and see if their product was of better price than our current distributor." He drew deeply on the cigar. "One could only pray that the quality might be better. Lord knows anything would be an improvement over that second rate firewater we've been getting from Taos."

Nathan snorted. "Half the folks around here wouldn't' know the difference. Shoot, Ezra, you give some of those muleskinners good whiskey and you'll like to kill 'em."

The Southerner grinned, his gold tooth flashing brightly. "I confess I hadn't thought of that. It would be a serendipitous undertaking indeed."

"All right," Larabee snapped, putting an end to the subject before they strayed further off the topic in point. "Who's going to go with him?"

The second bout of expected silence never had a chance to fall. Instead, it was cut short by the sound of crashing doors and raised voices from the front of the building. This was immediately followed by a sharp cry from Inez that had all seven men jumping to their feet and reaching for their guns.

"Where is he?" an angry male voice bellowed from inside the building. "I saw him come in here, now where the bloody blazes did he go?"

A few sharp, silent motions from Chris sent the other six scattering. Ezra and JD jumped silently from the dock, creeping down the alley and around the corner of the building with catlike grace. Nathan and Josiah quickly ducked under the open staircase that rose up the opposite side of the building and scurried up the street towards the front.

Tanner wasted no time in swinging himself up onto the stairs and was stealthily making his way to the second floor where he might take a position on the balcony above the taproom. Chris and Buck quietly entered from the back door, moving swiftly across the long, narrow room that served as Inez's kitchen and taking positions on either side of the doorway that connected to the taproom. Crouching down, Larabee could hear Inez as she managed to find her voice.

"Who are you looking for, Senor?"

"Wilmington! –That's who!"

Chris heard Buck's sharp intake of breath and cast an inquiring look across the open doorway to his old friend.

"Something you wanna tell me pard?"

Buck clenched his jaw and risked a quick glance around the corner of the doorjamb into the taproom. A very large, very angry red haired man stood in the middle of the room clutching a Henry rifle.

"Aw hell," he muttered. "It's Liam Mulroney."

Larabee frowned. "The wheelwright? What did you do to piss him off? –You don't even own a wagon."

Buck sighed. "It's just a little misunderstanding is all. Old Liam must have found out about me sparkin' with his daughter."

"Daughter?" There was an edge to Larabee's voice that Buck did not quite like, and observing the glint in the blond man's eye, Wilmington deemed it safer to try talking to Mulroney.

Sparing another quick glance around the corner of the door post, he saw Ezra and JD moving into position on the left and Nathan and Josiah from the right. The faint creak of a floorboard somewhere above told him that Vin had reached the balcony. Clearing his throat, Buck called out to the enraged man in his most easy going voice.

"Aw, come on now, Liam. There ain't no need to upset all these folks over a little thing like this."

"Buck," Larabee's voice held a note of warning, but he ignored it and forged on.

"After all, Katie's a grown woman now, an' a right pretty one to boot. You can't blame a fella for—"

Buck yelped as the disconcertingly large caliber bullet whizzed past his ear, scraping splinters from the doorjamb just inches above his head.

"Or maybe he can," Buck muttered to himself.

"Buck," Larabee said again, and this time there was a note of amused resignation that caused Buck to glance over at the blonde gunman.

"Liam Mulroney doesn't have a daughter."

"What?"

Larabee rolled over onto his stomach and risked his own glance around the corner. "He does have a wife, though."

"Aw hell!" Wilmington muttered again. He shot Chris an exasperated look. "Well how the hell was I supposed to know that? He's damned sure old enough to be her father!"

"For that matter, so are you," Larabee said dryly. He snuck another look and saw that Josiah was quietly edging through the front doors. It was time for a distraction.

"Mulroney!" he called, "Why don't you put the gun down and we talk about this? I know you don't want anyone to get hurt!"

"The bloody hell I don't!" the wheelwright retorted. "The only man I'll be talkin' to is that ruttin' bastard, Wilmington, and I'll be doin' it with me own two fists, thank ye verra much!"

On the wall beside them, Larabee saw a shadow of movement. Unfortunately, Liam Mulroney saw it too. The roar of the Henry was followed by the tinkling of breaking glass and punctuated by Inez's enraged shriek.

_"Ay mi! Los ventanas!_"

"Back off, Preacher," Mulroney snapped. "This is none of your affair!"

"Now Liam, let's just take it easy," Josiah said soothingly. He raised his empty hands to shoulder level, palms outward in supplication. "If you just put down the gun, I'm sure we can get Buck out here and work this all out."

"Not very damned likely," Buck said under his breath.

Chris took the opportunity to crawl from the doorway to the safety of the bar. Sneaking a glance into the mirror above, he could clearly see the scene before –or rather—behind him. Mulroney stood like an angry grizzly, the Henry leveled on Josiah's chest. JD and Nathan stood to either side, their weapons fixed upon the enraged man. Likewise, Standish stood just outside the shattered window, his pistol in one hand, the derringer in the other.

Larabee swore to himself and shot another scathing look at Wilmington. When was the damned fool going to learn? They would be lucky if somebody didn't catch a bullet over this. –He rather hoped it wouldn't be the wheelwright. He seemed to recall Mary mentioning Mulroney as one of the sponsors of that dance she was getting together. He didn't need the grief she would give him if they ended up planting one of her only donors. On the other hand, he wasn't crazy about Sanchez buying it, either. He swung his gaze back to the mirror to see Josiah still standing in the doorway, speaking calmly to Mulroney. Damned preacher was loco. Larabee hoped the man didn't get himself killed If he did, then who the hell did he think was gonna pray over him? He was the only one of them qualified for that job.

The conversation that was taking place between Sanchez and Mulroney was quiet and strained. Judging from the angry twitch that was pulling at the big Irishman's mouth, Chris gathered that his patience was rapidly waning. He sighed. If Josiah wasn't able to talk him down this would likely end in flying lead.

"That's it!" Mulroney snapped, levering another round in to the Henry so quickly that no one had time to react. "Get out here ye bloody cuckolder and take 'yer medicine, or else I'll be blowin' this yammerin' Bible thumper all the way to St. Peter's door."

Shit, Chris thought as he edged around the corner of the bar. Somebody was going to have to shoot the dumb bastard, and it was probably going to have to be him. Mary was going to be pissed. Still, he mused, drawing careful aim on the man, it couldn't be helped.

A blur of movement descended from somewhere above, landing squarely on Mulroney's head in a crash of splintering wood. Chris swore and pulled up his gun, his finger a hairsbreadth from the trigger. Rolling from his position, he looked to the balcony above and belatedly remembered Tanner. Larabee got to his feet and peered over the bar at the wreckage that surrounded the still form of Liam Mulroney. For a moment, he thought Vin might have launched himself upon the man, but he looked up to see the bounty hunter's inquisitive face peering down from the railing above him.

Drawing closer to Mulroney, Chris made out the splintered sticks of finely carved walnut that splayed out about the man. The Texan had dropped a table on his head …and a marble topped one to boot.

Nathan quickly made his way to the wheelwright's side to assess the damage.

Larabee nodded to the motionless form. "He dead?"

"No," the healer pronounced, "but he's gonna have a mighty powerful headache when he wakes up."

Chris nodded sharply. "In that case, let him wake up in jail." He glanced from Nathan to JD. "Get him out of here."  
Inez, seemingly back to her unflappable self, was already moving back through the taproom, soothing customers and dispensing drinks. The conversation began to resume in a low hum, the excitement over.

"Quick thinking," Larabee commented to Vin as the Texan descended the inside staircase. "I thought we were going to have to shoot him."

"Mighta been easier if we'd just let him shoot Buck," Tanner grumbled, rubbing his shoulder. "I think I pulled something lifting that table." The bounty hunter glanced with resignation to where Ezra stood, guns holstered and notebook and pencil already in hand as he tabulated the damages. "I wonder how much Ezra's gonna charge me for that."

The gambler looked up at the mention of his name. "Hmmm? –Oh, the table. That will cost you nothing, Mr. Tanner. It was a necessary sacrifice in the discharge of your duties."

Standish glanced down at the table in question and noted it in his book. "One side table, marble topped in the Eastlake style, Massey & Sons, Chicago." He considered it for a moment. "It will, however, cost Mr. Wilmington twelve dollars and seventy-five cents."

"What!" Buck roared, emerging fully from the kitchen.

""Oh, all right, eleven." Ezra sighed and scowled down at the wreckage. "I never did care for it anyway. It belongs to mother." He ripped the page from his notebook and passed it to Buck. "I think that should just about cover it."

"Twenty-seven dollars!" Buck shouted. "That's more than two weeks pay! Liam Mulroney comes in here and shoots up the place and you're gonna stick _me_ with the bill?" The usually jovial ladies man glowered menacingly at Ezra, but the gambler was unruffled as he tucked away his pencil and notebook.

"It's only logical," Ezra observed, "Seeing as how you were the cause of the altercation in the first place."

"Now wait just a blasted minute," Buck hissed, and angrily thrust the paper back in the smaller man's face.

"Man's got a point, Bucklin," Vin observed from the sidelines. The bounty hunters tone was mild and amused, but Chris could see that it was doing little to soothe his old friend.

Larabee snatched the bill from Buck's hand before the big man completely lost his cool and tried to make Standish eat it. Glancing briefly at the tally, he folded the paper once, creased it, and tore it neatly in half. He handed one piece to Vin. "Take that over to the jail and tell Mulroney when he wakes up that he owes Maude Standish a new table." He handed the remaining portion to Buck. "Pay it," he said tersely.

"Aw, Chris," Buck sighed still wanting to protest.

Larabee would have none of it. "Either that or take it up with Mulroney when I let him out this afternoon."

Wilmington accepted the torn slip with a sheepish grin. "Well, I'd like that, but somebody's gotta be ridin' along to Ridge City with ol' Ezra here, now don't they?"


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

**Chapter Five**

_Ridge City_

_Three days later…_

Orrin Travis was about as mad as Buck had ever seen him. No, Buck decided, as he watched the old man stalk through the doors of the Ridge City Saloon, mad did not even begin to describe it. Travis was furious. It was enough to make him wonder what the old man must have been like in his prime. He had a sneaking suspicion that if the Judge was twenty years younger, he might well have given even Chris Larabee a run for his money in the hissy-fit department. Buck studied the old man's precise, angry movements as he strode into the middle of the room and then decided that in a glaring competition, Larabee wouldn't even be in the same league.

He felt himself slinking down an inch or two in his chair as Travis's sharp gray eyes scanned the room. He knew instinctively that the old man was looking for him. He was fairly certain he didn't want to know why. –Not that a 'why' was immediately coming to mind. He and Ezra had only arrived in town this morning, having escorted their prisoner from Eagle Bend here for trial in connection with a recent bank robbery. Hell, they hadn't even had time to get drunk yet. In fact, Standish hadn't even come back yet from his errand to scare them up a hotel room.

"Wilmington!" The Judge's voice cracked like a whip, causing Buck to flinch. No, he decided, Chris definitely didn't have anything on the old man when it came to working up a lather. Forcing himself to meet Travis's gaze, Buck tentatively cleared his throat.

"Somethin' I can do for you Judge?"

Travis drew in a sharp breath. "As a matter of fact, there is. You can kindly take yourself down the street to the lobby of the Grand Hotel where your associate is currently brawling and escort him to the jail before he does any further damage."

"Ezra?" Buck gaped at the Judge in disbelief. Granted, the Southerner was full of surprises, but this was a bit much, even for him.

"I don't believe it," he muttered, getting to his feet. Just what in the hell had Standish gone and done now?

From somewhere in the distance came the tinkling sound of breaking glass. The Judge's already livid features turned from scarlet to purple.

"Believe it, Mr. Wilmington. Better yet, get down there and see for yourself! They've already broken Sheriff LaMont's jaw. I want this stopped!" Travis roared. "Now!"

Cursing under his breath, Buck scrambled out of the saloon and up the street towards the sound of the commotion. Even at this distance, he could hear the sound of punches being landed and winced. He hoped that Ezra wasn't on the receiving end of too many of them.

A crowd had gathered on the street in front of the Grand, and Buck could see that money was exchanging hands. Jostling his way through the press of bodies, he idly wondered if Standish had taken time to place his own wager. He decided he probably hadn't. If Ezra had had time to place a bet, then he would have at least taken the time to start the fight out in the street, rather than inside the building. –He wouldn't want the damages to cut in on the potential profits.

As he drew nearer to the fray, he began to wonder which way Ezra would have bet. The Southerner was clearly overmatched here, his opponent outweighing him by about forty pounds and a good three inches to boot. Buck grinned as the gambler caught the man neatly and threw him hard, leaving him gasping on the boardwalk like a beached trout. He might not have size on his side, but the little devil had spunk. Extracting a small roll of bank notes from his pocket Buck peeled off three bills and handed it to a man he identified as the local Presbyterian minister. The man was already holding a great quantity of greenbacks.

"A dollar on the little fella," he said, grinning.

Both men were breathing heavily now. Blood poured from numerous cuts on their faces as they continued to pummel each other. Buck frowned as he studied Ezra's opponent. There was something familiar about the man, but what with the bloody face, split lip, smashed nose and swelling eye, he doubted that the fella's own mother would have recognized him. Ezra wasn't much better. One eye was swollen shut and a bloody gash split across his cheekbone. A trickle of blood oozed from his busted lip and blood dripped from his right ear. The gambler took a solid blow to the jaw and Buck winced, hoping he wouldn't need another gold tooth before all was said and done.

Behind the two combatants, shards of glass still dangled from the shattered frame of the large bay window. Buck shook his head. No wonder the old man was hot. Glass was expensive around these parts and the repair bill would undoubtedly be coming out of his own pocket if the two fighters didn't have the cash.

As if summoned by the thought, Travis suddenly materialized at Buck's elbow. "Well, don't just stand there, damn it! Break it up!"

Buck sighed and pushed the rest of the way through the crowd, nodding to the tall, sandy haired deputy who was still trying to revive the unconscious form of Sheriff LaMont.

"Come on," Buck said, "I'll get Standish, you take the other one."

The deputy looked doubtful. "The Sheriff already tried that. The little bastard knocked him silly."

Buck grinned. "Quick, ain't he?"

Wading into the fray, Buck and the deputy succeeded in tackling the two men. After a bit of wrestling, the deputy finally managed to grab the larger man's arms, pulling him away from the fight. Buck opted for a more direct approach, latching onto the gambler by the scruff of the neck and yanking him off his feet. The smaller man cursed and kicked and flailed wildly, looking for all the world like a snarling dog.

Buck shook him roughly. "Here now, Ezra! What's all this about?"

"Get off me, Buck!" the Southerner snapped, "I'm not through with that son of a bitch!"

Buck stared at the gambler in surprise. Even at his angriest, Ezra almost never resorted to profanity. He considered it beneath his self-proclaimed position as a gentleman. Obviously extraordinary circumstances must be at work here for him to use such language on the street.

"Easy now, pard," Buck purred, maintaining his hold on the struggling man. "Why don't you tell me what this is all about?"

From the opposite side of the doorway, Ezra's opponent shrugged out of the deputy's grasp and dabbed at his bleeding lip with a piece of his torn shirtsleeve.

"Crazy bastard!" he spat. The voice was familiar, though Buck still could not place it for all the blood and bruises that marred the man's features.

The man turned angrily to Judge Travis. "I wanna press charges, Judge!" he complained, "That man's loco! He attacked me for no reason!"

Ezra twisted free of Buck's grasp and tugged at the torn lapels of his frock coat, smoothing himself back into some form of disheveled dignity. He rotated his head slowly, trying to ignore the ringing in his ears and spat, mindful of the tooth that wobbled slightly in his mouth.

"You know the reason, McQueen." His voice had a dangerous edge to it.

"McQueen?" Buck looked again at Ezra's foe, realization dawning. "Jake McQueen?"

It occurred to him now that he hadn't seen the bartender in quite some time. He hadn't thought to ask what had happened to the man, what with all the excitement of the army being in town and Ezra shooting that soldier. A dark suspicion washed over him, and he looked hard at the gambler.

"Ezra," Buck's tone brooked no argument. "You mind tellin' me just what in the Sam Hill this is all about?"

Standish's jade green eyes flashed with defiance, but it was quickly doused with a cool look of calculation before being replaced at last with the ever-implacable poker face. Reaching into his pocket for a handkerchief that was only slightly less rumpled than the rest of his attire, Ezra carefully wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth.

"This ill-bred whelp of a female cur," the Southerner indicated McQueen with a disgusted tilt of his head, "is responsible for setting two military lowlifes upon a particular lady of our acquaintance."

"Inez?" McQueen laughed harshly. "This is about Inez? That two-bit Mexican tramp deserved everything she got!"

He might have intended to say more, but he never had a chance. Orrin Travis heard the twin growls of fury from both Standish and Wilmington and moved to intervene. In the end, all he could do was catch the falling body that collapsed against him as the gambler was hurled unceremoniously out of the path of an enraged Buck Wilmington. McQueen, recognizing his peril, was able to take no more than a step or two before he was whirled around on his feet to face Buck's murderous eyes. Gripping the man by the shirtfront, Buck spared only a moment to line the man up in his sights.

"You yella-bellied polecat!" he spat, and swung.

The blow landed squarely on McQueen's jaw and sent the erstwhile bartender reeling backward. Travis cringed at the sound of the shattering glass as the man fell through the remaining bay window on the opposite side of the doorway. He mentally added another twenty-five dollars to the list of damages, and then quickly gave up the tally as Buck stepped through the shattered window frame. The sound of body blows and breaking furniture filtered out of the now open window and into the street.

Dorian Jessup, the proprietor of the Grand, appeared in the doorway and shook his head. "There goes the rest of the downstairs," he sighed.

Travis shot him an apologetic look. "I am truly sorry, Mr. Jessup. Rest assured these men will pay for the damages."

To his surprise, Jessup grinned. "Well, hell, it ain't all bad then. The wife's been after me to redecorate for years."

Another crash followed this happy pronouncement as a body –Travis vaguely identified it as McQueen—was sent hurtling through the side window of the front dining room and into the alley outside. He shook his head in despair.

"Hell and damnation," he muttered under his breath. "There goes another window!"

Beside him, Standish paused in the act of dusting himself off to offer a sympathetic clap on the shoulder. "Fear not, Judge," the gambler's voice was almost cheerful as he watched his comrade's progress. Wilmington jumped from the broken window frame to pick up McQueen's battered form and pummel it down the length of the alley. "I happen to know an excellent window-glass man."

_Four Corners_

_Four days later…_

Chris Larabee shoved one foot against the apple barrel that was strategically positioned in front of Potter's store and tipped back in his chair. Tilting his head slightly, the blonde gunman watched JD Dunne's slow progress down the boardwalk from the telegraph office. Judging by the expression on the kid's face, he had news and it wasn't good. Obviously, the kid had pegged Larabee as the type to shoot the messenger. Chris scowled to himself. The perception wasn't completely unfounded, but damn it, he wasn't that much of a tyrant was he?

Well, perhaps he shouldn't have bitten Vin's head off this morning, he conceded to himself. But the Texan's unwelcome news that a crew of twenty men driving cattle from Texas was less than two days out of town, and the fact that he was still two men short had simply been more bad news than he could handle before breakfast. The expectation of twenty rowdy, drunken cowhands unleashed upon the town and compounded with the irritation that Buck and Ezra had already taken what was supposed to be a simple two day trip and turned it into what was likely a four day extravaganza of whoring and gambling was too much for his already frayed temper to bear.

Hell, he thought acidly, it was his own damned fault. He should have known better than to send those two off together. Either one of them was enough of a trouble magnet on their own. –Not to mention the fact that Standish was up to something… Standish was _always_ up to something, but it had set off every warning bell in his head when the man had actually volunteered for the trip. The Southerner was notorious for never doing any more than he was asked, and even then he usually saw fit to complain about it.

Chris's first instinct had been to keep the gambler here, and send Josiah or even Nathan along with Buck, but Vin had pointed out that Ezra had seemed on edge as of late, and after the gambler's unusual confrontation with that salesman passing through town the week before, he figured it wise to get the man out of town before he shot somebody. Buck, on the other hand, had to be sent away before somebody shot him. True to form, the big ladies man had been sniffing around another man's flower bed. Word had it that Mulroney was still on the warpath and threatening to shoot Wilmington on site. Chris figured that a day or two out of town might give the man some time to cool off. He sighed. Damn, but there were times he'd like to geld Wilmington himself.

He suddenly became aware of the nervous shadow shifting across his line of vision and looked up to see JD frowning down at him, a scrap of paper crumpled tightly in his hand.

"Did you find Buck and Ezra?"

The young sheriff nodded. "Yeah, I wired the Judge. They're still in Ridge City. He knew right where they were."

"So they're on their way back?"

Dunne cleared his throat nervously. "Well, not exactly."

"What do you mean 'not exactly?'" Larabee said, his voice tightening with anger. "You did tell the Judge we needed them?"

JD bobbed his head vigorously. "Yeah, I told him!" he said quickly, "But they can't come right now. There's a problem."

The front legs of Larabee's chair hit the boardwalk with a resounding thud. "What problem?" He asked, fixing the kid with the full weight of his gray-green glare. So help him, if the kid didn't spit it out, he was gonna reach down his throat and pull it out of him.

JD's brown eyes shifted nervously. "They're in jail," he croaked, thrusting the telegram at Chris.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Sheriff LaMont said nothing as he tossed the keys to the deputy. Understandable, Ezra thought, considering the man's jaw was wired shut. Still, the lawman's hazel eyes expressed his disgust as he glared from Judge Travis to his deputy and then tilted his head, indicating the man should release the prisoners. Ezra traded a look with Buck who reclined on his cot in the adjoining cell. Judging from the look on the old man's face, Travis was still mad enough to chew nails. He was uncertain as to what fortuitous wind had blown through town to invoke their release, but he was wise enough to tread carefully. There was still the little matter of the financial reparations, and the fact of the matter was that both he and Buck were about a hundred and fifty dollars short. What little cash they did have was back in their rooms at Four Corners.

Pulling himself to his feet, Buck picked up his hat and tugged it on. "What's goin' on, Judge?" he asked. Clearly, he too was confused by their sudden and unexpected release. "I thought you said we were in here until we either came up with the money to pay Mr. Jessup or made the repairs ourselves."

"Your fine has been paid. You two are free to go." Travis said tersely.

This news caught both men cleanly by surprise. Even Ezra hesitated, pausing in the act of pulling on his frock coat. "Paid? He queried, cocking one auburn brow. "By whom?"

"By me." Both Travis and the Sheriff had the distinct pleasure of watching both Standish and Wilmington pale noticeably at the sound of the quiet voice that came from the doorway.

Ezra groaned inwardly. He did not have to look up to know that Chris Larabee stood there, his jaw tense and his green eyes blazing. He made a show of straightening his cuffs, ignoring the fact that he was missing a button and the shoulder of his jacket was ripped halfway down the seam. "Mr. Larabee, we are deeply indebted to you…"

"Shut up, Ezra." Chris snapped. "If it weren't for the fact that there's a cattle crew hittin' town tomorrow and I need every hand, I'd have left the both of you here to rot."

Buck, in the meantime, was frowning "Where'd you get the money, Chris?" he asked, knowing full well that while Larabee had some put away, he was not flush with cash.

Chris scowled. "I sold two of the colts to Harland Rogers. He gave me a hundred for them. You owe Vin and JD for the rest."

"Aw hell, Chris, " Buck sighed, stepping out of the cell. "I wished ya hadn't a done that."

Larabee grunted. "Me too," he said, glaring hard at his two wayward men, both of whom sported a colorful array of bruises across their features. "I'm startin' to think maybe Rogers got the better end of the deal."

Travis flashed a hard, knowing smile. "I wouldn't worry about it, Chris. I'm sure you'll find a way for them to make restitution."

"I doubt that will be a problem," Ezra said smoothly, as he exited his cell. "It shouldn't take me long to raise the sum."

Larabee shook his head. "I don't want your money, Ezra," he said with a grim smile. "I want your hide."

"I beg your pardon?" the gambler's tone was ripe with caution and dismay.

"I've been meaning to build another corral out to the ranch," Chris said casually. "I hope you boys like diggin' post holes."

"Post holes?" Ezra echoed, tasting the word like a foreign epithet.

"Post holes," Larabee said, his grin widening. "Lots and lots of post holes."

Buck grinned. He knew full well that Ezra detested manual labor even more than parting with cash from his own pocket. This might not be too bad after all. He shot Chris a cheerful look.

"Just how big is this corral gonna be, anyhow?"

"Big enough to keep both of you out of town for a week," Larabee assured him, watching Buck's smile fade at the thought of lost romantic opportunities.

"Aw hell," Buck grumbled again, collecting his guns from the deputy.

"You should consider yourself lucky, Wilmington," the Judge said. "you were fortunate you didn't accidentally kill McQueen back there, or this situation wouldn't have been as easily rectified."

"The only accident," Ezra drawled, strapping on his guns, "was that we didn't put an end to that dreadful excuse for a human being. Lord knows I certainly meant to."

"McQueen?" Chris said sharply, "Jake McQueen?"

"Yes," the Judge murmured, noting how Larabee's anger with his men seemed to fall away instantly at the mention of the name.

"I take it you know what this is all about, then?" The Judge asked, hoping Larabee might enlighten him as to the reason he was now overseeing the expenses for the remodeling of the Grand Hotel.

"Yeah," Larabee said quietly, his gaze thoughtfully following the gambler out the door. Everything was finally starting to make sense. No doubt, the traveler Ezra had roughed up in the saloon last week had been some poor misinformed soul who had spoken to McQueen. The gambler had seen the prisoner escort as an opportunity to silence the man and had apparently decided to take it. Frankly, Chris was surprised the Southerner had taken the initiative, and wondered if perhaps Mary Travis wasn't just a little bit right after all.

"Would you care to enlighten me as to the details of this little drama?" The Judge asked, his tone more of a demand than a question.

Chris shook his head. "No," he said quietly. He turned slightly and fixed both the Judge and LaMont with an unwavering gray-green gaze. "McQueen still in town?"

The Judge studied him carefully. "For the time being," he replied. "He's not in much shape to go anywhere. Wilmington broke his leg when he threw him out the window."

Chris merely nodded. "Give him my respects," he said grimly.

"And?" Travis said quietly, for he could hear the word hanging in the air between them.

"Suggest he move on as soon as he's able," Chris said.

"Any particular reason for that sage advice?" Travis asked.

Larabee nodded again. "Tell him if I ever hear his name mentioned in these parts again, I'll let Standish and Buck finish what they started."

Travis followed Chris to the door, watching as Buck and Ezra pulled themselves up onto their horses, wincing mightily from their sore muscles and bruised ribs. At the moment the Southerner didn't look fit enough to make the ride back to Four Corners, let alone ride herd on the rowdy crew of cowboys that would be cutting loose on the town when they got there. Orrin shot Chris a bemused look.

"Two hundred dollars is a lot of money." Travis observed, watching intently as the blonde gunman pulled a cigarillo from his pocket and lit it. "Are you sure they're worth it?"

Larabee's grinned as he shook out the match and tossed it away. "Ask me next week."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

Vin Tanner reined in Peso a few feet shy of Larabee's front porch and watched the progress of the two dirty, sweating men who labored in the hot noon-day sun. Both were stripped to the waist and dust caked their arms and shoulders, the sweat running n muddy rivulets down their chests and backs.

"Light and set," Chris said from his chair on the shady front porch as he followed the progress of the laborers with a pleased expression on his face. Forty new fence posts rose solidly from the ground, and from his vantage point atop the leggy black gelding, Tanner could count at least another twenty freshly dug holes waiting to be filled.

The dirt and dust that caked Larabee's boots and trousers, and the patches of dark sweat that stained his shirt attested to the fact that he had not been long idle. Swinging his gaze back to the fence line, Vin noted where the long stretch of completed fence ended abruptly in a stack of boards and an abandoned hammer hanging from a fence rail above an empty tin coffee can.

"Brought you the nails you wanted," the tracker said, swinging down and untying the heavy bag from behind his saddle. He nodded towards the new construction. "That looks to be a might more than just a new corral."

Larabee grinned, "I thought I'd take advantage of the extra help and put in a couple more pens while they were at it."

"What did Ezra have to say about that?" Vin wondered, climbing the steps and dropping into the empty chair beside Larabee.

Chris's grin widened slightly. "I didn't tell him. He pretty much lost track of what they were doin' after the twentieth post or so."

"He's slippin'," Vin commented. "Musta been all those blows he took to the head."

The tracker frowned and watched the Southerner's progress as he slammed the spade back into the ground and chipped away another shovelful of the hard packed earth. "I reckon he's gonna figure it out sooner or later, though. He appears to be healin' up some."

"He is a lot less colorful than he was last week," Chris allowed, noting the dark and livid bruises that had marked the gambler's face and torso were fading away to yellow and green. Beneath the grime and dirt that covered his skin, they were barely visible now. The older man shrugged. "He'll live. He bitches more about the dirt than the pain."

Vin chuckled. "He would."

From off in the distance, they heard the stady rumble of a wagon and glanced up to see a team and buckboard topping the hill, flanked by four riders.

"That will be Mary and Inez," Vin said, nodding towards the wagon. I ran into them in town, they said something about bringing dinner out to everybody, bein's how it's Sunday and all."

Chris did not miss the wistful tone in the Texan's voice. He understood it in a way. He only vaguely remembered the large Sunday dinners from his childhood, when his mother and sisters would cook enough to feed an army and all the family would gather around. It had been an experience largely lost to him until after he'd married Sarah, and even then the small, quiet gathering of her and Adam, Buck and himself had seemed but an echo of those childhood days. He suspected that Vin had never known those things at all. That was the difference between them. Vin was longing for something he'd never had, while he himself knew exactly what it was he was missing.

He watched the wagon draw nearer with an odd emotion twisting in his gut as he recognized Nathan, Josiah, JD and Casey riding along beside them and spotted Billy's towheaded blonde form clinging tightly behind the girl's saddle. If Mary had asked his opinion on the matter, he would have brushed her off, told her it was unnecessary –which probably was why she hadn't asked. Now that he saw them coming towards him, he was rather glad she hadn't bothered to mention it to him. Something told him this was all the family he was ever going to have. It was wrong to push them away. One never knew when you might lose them. It was a lesson he had learned the hard way. He was still learning it.

Rising from his chair, Chris stepped down off the porch to greet Mary and Inez as the fair-haired woman skillfully halted her bay driving horse in front of the little shack. Offering Mary his hand, he helped her down out of the wagon as Vin moved around to the opposite side to do the same for Inez.

"Chris! We brought you a picnic!" Billy called excitedly, barely waiting for Casey's hand as he scrambled down from behind her.

"So I see," he murmured, doing his best not to look too pleased as he met Mary's eyes. He caught Nathan and Josiah's knowing looks, and suspected he was failing miserably.

"Seeing as how you were all working so hard, we thought we'd bring you dinner," Mary explained, smoothing the folds of her skirt. She tossed a glance towards Buck and Ezra, walking back from the corrals covered in grime and sweat, and then turned a speculative blue eyes to Chris's own relatively unruffled appearance. "Although it appears some of you are working harder than others."

"The Sabbath is meant to be a day of rest," Josiah commented, dismounting his horse.

"I would greatly appreciate it if you would remind Mr. Larabee of that," Ezra complained, picking up his shirt, waistcoat and jacket from the end of the porch where he had left them, carefully folded. "He does not appear to recognize the difference."

Nathan chuckled. "Ezra, I reckon the good Lord will take a day's honest work from you any day he can get it."

It was a sign of the gambler's exhaustion that he did not have a ready retort. He settled for shooting the healer an acid look and stalking off around the corner to wash and properly attire himself before further socializing in the presence of the women. Buck, on the other hand, appeared to have little concern as to his state of undress. Sauntering over to the wagon, he flashed an irrepressible smile at Inez and looked hopefully at the picnic baskets loaded in the back of the wagon.

"So what did ya bring?" he asked, lifting up one of the gingham table cloths that covered the food with a grimy hand.

Inez swatted him away. "There will be nothing for you, if you don't wash up. I prefer my food without the seasonings of the barn yard."

"Yes ma'am," Buck said, not quite chastised. Still, he obediently made off in the direction of the horse tank to remove the worst of the grime.

Chris shook his head. "Some day I'm gonna fill his canteen with water I've washed my horse in an' see how he likes it. I'll have to refill the stock tank when he's done. The horses won't want to drink out of it."

Vin rolled an amused eye towards him. "You drink outta his canteen lately? As often as he changes the water in it, I doubt he'd note the difference."

The women wasted no time in selecting a spot and directing the men to haul the baskets to the shade of the small saplings that stood just behind the little cabin. Mary, Inez and Casey quickly began unpacking the baskets while the men spread out the blankets in the shade.

"Drat!" Mary exclaimed, searching through her baskets. "I'm short two plates. I must have left them on the table at home."

"I've got a couple in the house," Chris said as he worked to loosen the knots that bound his bedroll blanket. It had been while since he'd used it, and the leather had dried out a bit.

"I will get them," Inez said, rising to her feet.

"They're on the table," Chris said, and flashed an apologetic look. "I can't speak as to how clean they are."

Inez merely smiled and shook her head. –Men. She expected no less. Strolling up to the forlorn little two-room dwelling, she entered and was surprised to see how orderly it was. There were no furnishings save a bunk, a table and two chairs –all rough, but handmade and sturdy. A small two-burner stove stood against the back wall and a variety of bridles, halters and ropes hung neatly from pegs on the wall just inside the door. Two rough shelves behind the stove held the few staple groceries, but she could see no cooking utensils save a blackened coffee pot and a well-seasoned skillet. She shook her head as she picked up the two battered tin plates from the table. It was a wonder to her that men were able to survive at all with their own meager cooking skills.

Stepping off the porch and into the sunlight, she glanced down at the plates and understood Larabee's sheepish comment about the condition of his dinnerware. There were indeed bits of old food particles stuck to the plates, and a hint of rust bloomed where the enamel had chipped away to expose the tin. She knew that hot water was too much to hope for, but at least there was soap and water, and she fully intended to use both. Rounding the corner of the shack, she headed toward the rain barrel and halted suddenly at the sight of the man standing before it.

Lathered from head to shoulders, Ezra reached blindly for the tin wash basin and bailed a pan-full of the tepid water from the rain barrel. Dousing his upper body as best he could, he wiped the water from his eyes and froze as he heard the sharp, feminine intake of breath behind him.

_Damn._

He felt the panic welling up inside of him, could practically feel the horrified eyes that even now must be traveling over the multitude of knotted scars that crisscrossed his back. He fought back a surge of anger at both himself and the intruder. He did not want anyone's pity; he had more than enough of his own supply. He should have kept his shirt on, but he disliked ruining a garment unnecessarily and it was not a sight that Chris or Buck had not seen before. If it disturbed the two men, the pretended not to notice and he pretended not to notice their rather transparent effort they made in doing so. Schooling his face to remain impassive, he slowly turned around, fully expecting to meet the shocked gaze of Mary Travis or Casey.

To his surprise, it was Inez who stood before him, and he realized it was not the scars on his back that had shocked her. –They wouldn't of course. Aside from himself, and Nathan, she was the only other person so intimately familiar with them. She had helped to treat them, had seen the raw and bloody mess he had been when they had brought him back to town after the unfortunate incident and Randall's station. No, he realized, it was not the scars she was staring at, but the bruises. He flushed a bit and clenched his jaw as he felt her eyes travel across his ribs and over his chest where the dark purple marks were still fading away to sickly greens and yellows. They had not spoken of the events in Ridge City, but she knew damned well how he'd gotten them. He forced himself to meet her gaze, saw the mixture of anger and shame that burnt in her brown eyes and determined that he did not wish to speak of it now, either.

Inez saw the taut way that he held himself, the green eyes devoid of expression, and knew that raw and powerful emotions were roiling somewhere beneath the still waters of that infuriating poker face. She'd had ample opportunity to observe this man –to observe all of them—in the year since she had come to this place, and she was starting to think she might perhaps know a little of the puzzle that was Ezra Standish. She had seen him in some of his finest moments –and in some of his worst. She had seen him when he had lain bloody and broken and too close to death in that little room over the saloon. For all that he might be able to hide it from the others, there were glimpses of the inner man that he could not hide from her. –No matter how much he might wish otherwise.

_You are a decent man, Ezra Standish,_ she thought grimly, _no matter how much you try to deny it._

Something in the way he held himself reminded her of a wild creature, skittish at the scent of danger and ready to flee. Breaking his gaze, she moved past him to the water barrel and scooped more clean water into the basin.

"The scars have healed well," she commented, scraping a few flakes of soap into the water with the edge of one of the dinner plates. She knew better than to look at him directly, and settled for catching a glimpse of his image in the cracked mirror that hung beside the rain barrel.

"Thanks to your kind ministrations," the words were easy, but his movements were not. He was watching her intently, the green eyes wary as he dried himself off with the old flour sack towel and reached for his shirt.

"Was that why you did it?" Even as she asked the question, she wondered if he would bolt. Her dark eyes tracked his movements in the dusty, cracked reflection of the looking glass. Her words caught him squarely in the back. She saw their effect ripple across the sinewy, scarred muscles of his shoulders as he froze, struck motionless in the act of putting on his shirt. He turned to look at her, and she cast her eyes back to the plates in the wash basin.

She could hear the soft intake of breath behind her, and knew the expression that must be crossing his features. The green eyes would have narrowed just a bit, and a smile would be tugging at the corners of his mouth as he brushed the tip of his tongue against his lower lip. It was one of his only tells, that expression. It was the look he wore when he was trying to decide just how far he could shade a particular truth. She kept her eyes glued to the battered plate before her. She did not believe he had ever lied to her before. He frankly had never had reason. Even so, she did not wish to watch his face if he were going to do it now.

"It might have been one of the reasons."

Whatever words she had been expecting, it was not these. She dared to glance in the mirror once more. He was staring openly at her now, his face expressionless as he watched carefully for her reaction. She stilled, realizing he had neatly parried her question with his own and that the course of this fragile conversation was once again in her hands. She dried the plate with the fabric of her skirt –which she deemed cleaner than the towel—and set it down carefully as she turned to face him.

"Because of what I did for you?"

He said nothing.

She cocked her head. "You did not have to do it," she said quietly. "I considered us even the night the soldiers came."

"I know." He finished buttoning the collar of his shirt and drew on his waistcoat.

"Then why did you go after him?"

Ezra plucked the silk cravat from the pocket of his frock coat and began to knot it around his neck with nimble fingers. He fought to conceal his agitation as he struggled with the knot. Of course she would want to know. He was not a selfless man by nature, and his actions in Ridge City had been a mystery even to himself. She would want the truth of him, and up to this point he had always managed to give it to her. What could he say? He'd done it because someone had to? Because McQueen had it coming? Because someone had to teach the man that that ill use of women would simply not be tolerated in this country?

They were all truthful statements, and yet, they were not the truth. The truth was something else entirely.

_I did it, Inez, because I could not bear to see the fear in your eyes._

Of course, he could not tell her that. He glanced down at the knot he had finished. It was uneven. Scowling, he jerked it loose. His fingers scrambled at the tie and the snagging splinter that had imbedded itself in his index finger suddenly caught on the smooth fabric. Ezra bit back a soft oath and jerked his hand away, glaring at the offending digit.

"Here, let me see."

He was only distantly aware of her voice. All of his focus was suddenly given to the slim, bronzed fingers that closed over his own, turning his palm over in hers. Her hands were unlike those of other women he had known. They were not soft and delicate like his mother's –those were the hands of a gentlewoman, a woman of leisure. Nor were they the firm but genteel shop keeper's hands of Mary Travis or Gloria Potter. They were hard, and work worn, the calloused skin polished smooth from the long hours of wiping glasses and tables. They were strong and dexterous, moving with vibrant energy that reminded him of Inez herself: always moving, never still.

She frowned at the splinter, black and ugly and imbedded deep. "Come out into the light," she said softly, pulling him out from under the edge of the lean-to. "I think I can get it."

Placing her thumbnail at the base of the splinter, she applied pressure, forcing it up from beneath the skin. She felt the finely trained muscles jump beneath her fingers as Ezra flinched and she admonished him quietly. "Be still! I almost have it!"

He stood like a rock then, his fingers as rigid as a marble statue while she gently prodded at his hand.

"Senor Tuttle, stopped in today," she said conversationally as she bent over his hand.

Ezra arched one auburn brow. "The window-glass man? Doesn't he know you're closed on Sundays?" The new town ordinance had been in effect for more than a month.

Inez shook her head. "Oh, he did not come to drink. He was looking for you."

"For me?"

She smiled at the caution in his voice. "Si," she said, as she prodded at the splinter. "He wanted to thank you."

"Thank me?" He repeated, clearly bewildered. "What on earth for?"

"For recommending him to the man who owns the Hotel in Ridge City," Inez replied. "He said that between what he sold here after the Nichols family shot up the town, and what he sold to replace the windows in Ridge City, and the new windows that Dave had to put in after the cowboys came this week, his company was so impressed that they are giving him a promotion. They are calling him back to St. Louis to manage all their other salesmen. He will not have to travel any more."

Ezra raised an eyebrow. "Well, at least someone is reaping the benefit of the whirlwind. –Ouch!"

Her deft fingers had finally grasped the tiny particle, extracting it with a quick, though painful motion. She smoothed her fingers across his battered palm, taking note of the scratches and blisters.

"Senor Larabee seems to be getting his money's worth," she observed.

Ezra snorted. "And then some."

Squeezing his hand gently, she let her gaze travel up his sleeve to his shoulders and chest, the darkest of the bruises were still a shadow beneath the fine linen of his white shirt. He was not a large man, she thought, but what there was of him was lean and well built and quick to move. Even still, McQueen must have topped him in both weight and height –not to mention reach. And to hear Ike Deavers tell it, McQueen had been a fighter once, on the Bowery –wherever that was. She still could not understand it. He had been outmatched in size and perhaps even skill. There had been nothing in it for him: no money, no angle that she could see, nothing but bruises and jail time and now hard labor paying off the bail money he owed to Chris Larabee. It went against everything he claimed to be, and yet he still had done it. Why? She raised her eyes to his face, seeking an answer she knew he would not give her. But he must have had his own questions as well, for he was regarding her just as intently, his pale green eyes revealing only curiosity as he stared down at her.

Releasing his hand quickly, she reached up before he could react and took his jaw between her thumb and forefinger. He flinched instinctively at her touch, but did not pull away as she turned his face towards the sunlight to better inspect the damage. The cuts across his cheekbone and along his hairline had nearly healed but his lower lip was still slightly swollen and marred by the small black scab where it had split. The black eye had faded to a mottled shade of olive that almost matched the green of his iris. She cound herself lost for a moment in that jade-green orb, for there at last she found the answer which she had been seeking in the steady gaze. He had done it for her, and nothing more.

"Was it worth it?" She asked softly, dropping her hand away.

He stepped back from her and smiled faintly, recalling Larabee's answer to almost the same question. That particular answer, however, did not seem quite as fitting.

"I thought so at the time," He said quietly.

"Hey Chris, can I go look at the new horses?"

Chris leaned back on the blanket and smiled as Billy looked eagerly to the corrals where the four colts and two fillies stood drowsing in the late summer sun. "Just stay on this side of the fence," he warned, "and don't get too close. There's one or two of them that might take a chunk out of your hide."

"Don't be too long," Mary called. "We'll be ready to eat in a minute." She sighed and shook her head, her cornflower blue gaze following the boy all the way up to the lot. "He's been pestering me again about getting him a pony. I told him we don't have the money to buy one, let alone keep one at the livery." She shook her head. "And apparently just renting Duke from Yosemite whenever we need a horse simply isn't good enough."

Chris shot her a speculative look. "Plenty of room for an extra horse here," he said mildly.

Mary glared at him. "I've heard about nothing but horses for the last two weeks. –Don't you dare encourage him!"

He grinned. It was already too late for that. He couldn't help but notice Billy's fascination with the young, half-broken animals when they'd stopped to look at them on their last fishing trip. The boy had been particularly taken with the little buckskin filly. She was the smallest of the lot, but she had a quiet eye and a steady way of going. She had been Harland Rogers' first pick when Chris had brought the man by to sell off some stock and raise the money for Buck and Ezra's bail. The cattleman had offered him a pretty sum for the filly, thinking she would be an excellent mount for his daughter. Chris had no doubt that the man was right, but had discovered that he was suddenly reluctant to part with her.

He'd cursed himself for a fool when Rogers had offered him a hundred and he'd turned him down flat. It was more than she was worth as she stood –probably only a few dollars above what she would bring as a quality ladies horse, broken to ride and drive. It was certainly far more than he had paid for her. Still, he could not help but think of the shine in Billy Travis's eyes as he'd stroked the filly's inquisitive muzzle. He'd settled instead for selling Rogers two of his better colts, already started under saddle, for a price that was less than he'd intended and still short of what he'd needed to retrieve Buck and Ezra.

Chris watched as Buck lifted the boy up onto the top rail of the fence and the filly came over to greet them. He did not regret the decision, he decided. It was just that Mary Travis was going to take some convincing. A shriek of laughter caught his attention and he turned his head to see JD chasing after Casey, who danced before him waving his bowler hat just beyond reach. Nathan and Josiah sat a few feet away, leaning back on their elbows and watching the scene with no small amount of amusement. Vin had taken a seat against the trunk of one of the cottonwood trees and was blowing softly on his harmonica, a halting, tuneless melody that faded on the breeze.

Something caught at his insides then, an old feeling so long buried that it was almost unfamiliar. Chris felt the wonder of it spreading through him as he realized what it was: happiness. He had almost forgotten what it felt like. But here in the meadow, surrounded by friends and laughter and a new future rising before him, he could feel the warmth of it curling inside him once more. He let his gaze travel slowly from face to face, memorizing each expression, savoring this moment that would not last long enough. He had come to think of life as a gray existence dotted sporadically with equal moments of joy and sorrow to break up the monotony of everyday living. As a result, joy –when it came—was something not to be wasted.

He felt Mary's gentle touch on his arm, and looked up to see an odd expression of satisfaction lighting her face.

"Look," she said softly, nodding her head towards the house. He followed her gaze to where Ezra and Inez stood beside the rain barrel, his palm outstretched in hers and their heads bent together. The Mexican woman was saying something, her gaze intent as she studied the Southerner's hand. Probably clucking over a blister or a splinter, Chris thought dismissively. Lord knew the gambler had earned his share of them this week. He flashed his gaze back to the corral where Buck was helping Billy feed the horses. Too bad Wilmington wasn't seeing this, he'd be kicking himself that he hadn't thought of that particular tactic. He'd turned the air blue this morning when he'd missed and hit his thumb with the hammer.

He said as much to Mary and she scowled at him, a small crease wrinkling her brow. "No," she said more urgently, "_look."_

He turned his attention back to the couple and finally understood what she was seeing that she had missed. Not Inez, peering at the gambler's abraded palms, but at the man himself. Standish stood still and silent, his hand seemingly forgotten as his eyes traveled intently over the face of the woman before him. Chris suddenly realized that he could not recall seeing Ezra look at a woman quite that way. –Not the soiled doves, nor the widow on the wagon train, nor even that little Chinese girl he'd taken pity on and rescued from the railroad camp a few months back. Certainly he'd never taken such notice of any of the other women in town. –Which was probably a good thing, Larabee reflected. If he'd caught Standish looking at Mary Travis that way, he'd have been entirely too tempted to shoot the Southerner. The wayward thought brought him skidding to a mental halt. He was not ready to ride that trail just yet. Neither, he suspected, was Mary. Even so, he could not prevent himself from meeting her knowing gaze.

"I think," she said with a smile in her voice, "that you are going to owe me a waltz before this is through."

He flashed her a brilliant smile. "A man shouldn't wager with what he can't afford to lose."

"I'll hold you to that, Mr. Larabee."

"I'll bet you will."


End file.
